Drabbles Of The King
by Rhia474
Summary: Short drabbles centered around Alistair, prompted by the Swooping Is Bad clan's 1K Fiesta. All drabbles take place in the Giovanna Cousland/Alistair FitzTheirin ficverse, and are in chronological order.
1. Cheese

Cheese

It's late and dark and dead quiet and Marissa is fast asleep in the corner of the kitchen by where it's always warm from the great fire burning in the stove all day. She pulls the old blanket over her as she turns in her sleep—she was bone tired following last night's festivities but she's the youngest of the scullery maids so she can only sleep here, as she's the first to rise and start the fires, sweep and prepare for the rush of breakfast preparations when the heart of the whole palace wakes. So she's exhausted and doesn't hear anything until the crash of crockery and plates and something breaking on the floor and rolling and some really sharp cursewords, and something hits her on the side as it rolls on the floor. She jumps up, heart pounding, blanket clutched to her chest, making a sharp 'eep' sound, eyes wide open, hair sticking up in all directions, one hand desperately trying to find the knife she keeps at her side at all times since those monsters first were sighted outside the city walls those weeks ago… and blinks back a cry of surprise as her startled movement, almost instinctively, morphs into a curtsy at the sight of the man standing in the middle of the shelf with the remnants of last night's banquet fare.

"Oops." Of all things, Marissa reflects a bit disappointed, this is not a girl imagines the King of Ferelden would say, ever. Then again, Alistair Theirin is not an ordinary king by any means. "So sorry, dear lady. I made a mess, it appears."

"Your Majesty." She mumbles, moving quick and with eyes downcast, as taught, grabbing the broom and the dustpan from the corner. "I'll clean this up right away…" There are pieces of broken crockery all over the floor, and an almost intact wheel of crumbly Redcliffe cheddar lays on the floor right next to her little sleeping spot where it rolled from where the head cook stashed it on one of the large storage shelves.

He wants to help…by the Maker, the King of Ferelden wants to help the scullery maid. She is not quite convinced she isn't still dreaming this, and since she doesn't quite know how to say 'no' to a King (does anybody?), they end up collecting the pieces of pottery together, the King lifting the cheese wheel from the floor carefully, dusting it a bit before placing it on one of the big preparation tables. Marissa empties the last of the shards into the big bin outside the kitchen door and surveys the scene again: the King found a knife and is busy to shave off some chunks of the dark orange-colored cheese on to a wooden plate from above the huge sink.

"I get hungry at the worst times." King Alistair says, almost apologetically, while sawing on the cheese, and there's a sheepish grin on his face as he looks at Marissa. "And when I do, I absolutely must eat. And when I absolutely must eat, it's cheese I want. So. Hence, this." He shakes his head. "I didn't know they let someone sleep in the kitchen here…"

"It's warm." Marissa says quietly. "And it's right here…"

"I suppose it is." The King stops, looking at her awkwardly, and Marissa is sure her eyes are mistaken to see an almost apologetic smile forming on his lips. "So, um… since you're up in the middle of the night, uh… would you mind going to the pantry and see if they have any of that Val Royeaux brie left? The Queen will kill me if I don't bring her back some of that."


	2. Socks

Socks.

He finds her in the blue salon overlooking the river, with no one to keep her company—all her maids are cowering in her rooms. Her eyes are puffy and red from crying, and her nails are ragged and chewed down. Her great mass of red hair is all over the pillows as she sits, half-sprawled, and as he leans over her from the side, the smell of sour sweat, tears, old blood and grief slam into him like a hammer's blow.

"I tried…" she whimpers, and as she looks at him, he sees emptiness in her sapphire eyes, emptiness and ashes of hopes cherished in the past months beyond all expectations. "I tried, Alistair…"

She holds forth her hands, trembling and shaking like never before. He takes them in his own, and he feels the tiny pieces of fabric, clutched between her fingers, give way…

The little knitted sock booties, pink and fuzzy, for a child that will never be born, fall to the floor as Alistair Theirin gathers his wife to his chest, grieving for a future that yet again is swathed in darkness.


	3. Figurines

Figurines.

"For me?" he asks, eyes wide open, finger pointing at his own chest like a little boy. "Really?"

"Yes, well, I thought you said something about golem dolls once or twice, and eventually, even I can get a hint…" She grins and watches him shake the sack open. "Careful, they are all individually carved…"

"Oh." He breathes into the stretching silence, while she nervously chews her lips. "Wow." He lifts one of the little dolls, clothed in miniature full plate. "And the arms move up and down!"

"The legs move, too." She shuffles her feet, peeks up at her from underneath her hair falling into her face in carefully sculpted ringlets. "So: you like them?"

"You remembered…" he whispers with eyes slowly misting over. "You really did…"

"Well, of course." She chuffs good-naturedly, glancing to the side. "Although if you want to re-enact the Battle of River Dane with them, I'd advise to do so where the Orlesian ambassador can't see you." She leans forward and kisses his temple, right above where a little strand of strawberry-blonde hair started to turn grey last month. "Happy birthday, love."


	4. Roses

Roses

They have thorns. A lot of them.

_Roses are really monsters_, Alistair decides. Every time he moves, there's another branch that, he realizes, somehow managed to find a way to under his jerkin and directly attack him.

Ow. Ow.

Ouch.

This will teach him to be romantic, he fumes, as he twists to avoid another green barbed tentacle, just to be rewarded by another sharp sting of pain in his thigh.

_One more of these, just a little further up, and I'll be in no condition to harbor any romantic thoughts, ever_.

And that would be bad indeed.

_Let's just hope none of the guards sees me right now. It would be all over Denerim by the first light._

He stretches up and grabs the next handhold on the gutter, hoping it holds. He definitely did put on some weight since last time he did something even remotely like this…

_One advantage of being king is the limitless amount of cheeses one can eat…Ouch._

They call these climbing roses, and no lie. He suspects he knows well why his Queen insisted on planting those right under the windows of the palace wing where her rooms are; and he also suspects this was done after consulting a certain Antivan ex-assasin and an Orlesian ex-bard, now responsible for Palace security.

_I'll have a word with Zevran and Leliana in the morning_, he thinks, then he realizes Leliana is in Redcliffe now, with her husband and her children, and will not be back until her youngest, born last month, is able to travel. _Only the Crow, then_, he decides, pressing his lips together determinedly, as he pulls himself up and ducks under another thorny branch, almost as thick as his arm. _I had no idea roses can grow this big, and this fast. He probably did, bloody Antivan._

_He probably still thinks I need to chew certain herbs, and arch my back to get louder, too, _he huffs; that one still stings. But there's a silver lining—he's finally there, at the Queen's balcony, and even manages to heave himself over the railing and onto the floor without making too much noise. A last hiss of pain, caused by yet more thorns in his side, a quick glance to make sure the guards, just now reappearing at the corner after making a round, didn't hear him… and he ducks under the billowing white curtains through the open door, leading into her bedchamber.

_Too bloody easy_, it runs through his head…but it's too late. His hand clutching the flowers shakes just a little bit as the cold edge of a steel dagger nestles under his chin from behind, and a voice, husky from interrupted sleep, whispers into his ear:

"Well, well, well… what in the Fade are we doing here, FitzTheirin?"

"Trying to be sodding… romantic, woman… what do you think?" He is almost on tiptoes, as she holds the dagger right to his Adam's apple, and well, yes, his knees are hurting, and his sides are having stitches. He holds up the roses in his bleeding hands. "See? I bled for you."

"Oh." She still is the most beautiful woman in all Ferelden for him; even though there's grey in her mass of red hair now, a hundred little lines in the corner of her eyes and mouth, and her taut muscles acquired some slack during their years together. She lets the dagger fall and grabs his arm, pulling him around instead with the same decisiveness he found irresistible from their first time together. "Then let me see if I can make it better for you."

The flowers fall on the marble floor between them, forgotten, next to the dagger she drops in her haste to cup his face between her hands… and the next morning the Council is pleased to see the smiles on their monarchs' face.


	5. Splintmail

Splintmail.

"Like a cat that swallowed the canary." The First Enchanter of the Circle of Magi smirks, and the King lifts a hand, pointing at her in mock indignation.

"Hush, Wynne." Alistair says sternly; the effect, of course, is entirely wasted, as he's winking at the Crown Princess instead, who just sunk into her chair, still slightly flushed from running all the way from her morning lessons. "Don't even start."

"Me?" The white-haired mage smiles and bows her head towards the Queen, who's fiddling with her quill entirely too nonchalantly. "Perish the thought. I was merely noticing that…"

The Chancellor clears his throat and looks up from his pile of papers, and they all sit up and try to look like adults.

"If Your Majesties don't mind….?" Eamon says, stiff and a bit too formal. "There's this issue of the Orlesian delegation arriving for the birthday celebrations of Princess… Ow!" He yelps and jerks in his chair, and the Crown Princess looks up and smiles at him innocently across the table, as only twelve-year old girls can.

"Oops; I am sorry, Chancellor…I thought it was the table leg."

"Eleanor." The Queen sighs and tries to look stern, but mostly fails. "You're not on the training ground any more, please." Her eyes narrow as she looks her daughter over, noticing the way she sits, a bit lopsided and gingerly. "You got injuries?"

"Bruised, mostly." She rubs her side and sighs. "It was just the old splintmail… you know how it can dig into the side where it was altered for me?"

The Queen nods; the King nods. Yes, they know. And yet, they wouldn't have given any other training armor for their only child, than that battered old splintmail set that traveled across all Ferelden, practically, with the two of them.

"Good old splintmail." Alistair mutters, and pulls a piece of parchment in front of him with one hand, and a slice of cheese from the snack tray with the other. "Remind me to show you again how to pull the fasteners in, will you, chicklet?"

"Father!" Eleanor Theirin rolls her eyes at the nickname, but her concern is being swatted away by a royal eyebrow, as Alistair looks at Eamon.

"I believe you were saying, Lord Chancellor, that the Orlesian delegation had some objections to the themes of the festivities…?"

And the morning goes on, the agenda points of the royal council are being ticked off, one by one, and by the time it's over, the Crown Princess' bruise on her side is pretty blue and green and rather painful. But she doesn't mind: it just means that she and her father will spend an hour or so in the armory with some leather straps and buckles, refitting the old thing again. And Eleanor Theirin cherishes every moment she can spend with her parents. After all, she knows she doesn't have a lot of time left with them.


	6. Shield

Shield.

"I thought this belongs here."

It's quiet in the cemetery; almost no one visits this corner anyway, but the hour is late and most people who have relatives buried here are at home for supper at this time.

"It would have ended up in a great big heap in the Armory, forgotten and everything…or sent as some sort of dust-collector to hang on the walls in Amaranthine, or, I don't know, maybe in Weisshaupt. I could have had them sent there, you know. As a memento of the tumultuous times of the last Blight, the shortest in the history of the order. Or something. I am sure they'd have thought up some pretty sentences to write on a scrap of paper to catalog it with; they are very good at that in Weisshaupt. But I thought…that wouldn't be right. And the much I'd like to take it with me… something tells me it shouldn't end up on the Deep Roads either. So…" A sigh. "Sure found the quietest spot for your memorial, you know….and it's, by the way, utterly ridiculous that I talk to you as if you were here, when, in fact, we couldn't find your body at Ostagar at all. But I had to do this. Then, the marble, and now—your shield. It belongs here. It's part of the whole thing."

A clang, slight rustle; the battered shield, slightly dented but lovingly tended, rests lightly leaning on the fine slab of marble under the weeping willow.

"And now, I am afraid, it's time for me to go…" A pause. "Now there's a thought…maybe I'll see you down there, eh?" A calloused hand rests on the stone, traces gently over golden lettering. "On second thought, maybe better not…that would be some seriously bad luck or some awfully old cheese dream. Although the way my dreams are lately… I am babbling…forgive me. Take care of your shield, again. I had good use of it." The hand pats the marble for a last time, the sound of slow, departing steps…then the quiet returns to the old cemetery, and the last lights of the sun glance off the dented shield with its griffon proudly roaring its head towards the sky, the same image as on the marble stone with its simple lettering:

_Duncan. Grey Warden. Friend_.


	7. Family

Family

And how long do you plan for us to stay here, may I ask? In this end-of-the-world inn, in this end-of-the-world hillfort? With Avarrs?

Don't you shrug at me like that, I am your mother! I deserve an answer, and one that is spoken and clearly, mind you. I am not one of those injured fluffy creatures you keep finding and nursing back to health wherever we go. 'Tis getting troublesome, you know. People do talk.

Yes, that goes into the stew. Just a pinch, mind you. Also some thyme. These Avarr have no concept of how to make a decent stew… not quite unlike some people I knew when I was young…

Yes, I did mean your father. I have never seen a man to thoroughly ruining anything in a cookpot than him—you definitely did not inherit those skills from him. Stop snacking off the cheese, the innkeep will kick us out if he finds out. 'Tis all well if the cooks have some of their own fare on occasion, but your unwholesome and foolish devotion to dairy products from the inn's stores…

Maybe later. When we're done here. Albeit I do not think I would be inclined to share any tales tonight. Mayhap I will just sit by the fire and listen to you, this time.

Yes, daughter. I like you singing. You always had a beautiful voice. One of these days, maybe all Thedas will hear it.

Yes, I am rambling, forgive me. Why, look at me, almost like your father used to, come think of it.


	8. Victory

Victory

It's cold in the Frostback Mountains and the wind doesn't make it any easier on either of them. The Avarr mountain fort looms out of the blizzard like a beacon, a last respite before the final push towards the gates of Orzammar.

"Smells like wet dog." Alistair mutters as they stand in front of the gate, half-supporting each other. "I bet it smells like wet dogs in there."

"Shouldn't be too difficult to you, then." She shrugs. 'You were raised by them, after all?" The wind catches the edge of her cloak and tugs at it. "After you, Majesty."

The sentry sees the griffons emblazoned on their cloaks and admits them without much fuss; apparently the Grey Wardens are known to these people. Inside there is stone-paved little paths, and earth-packed ramparts and small stone houses huddling against the walls, and not too many people out in this weather. They are heading to the little inn, as directed by the sentry, where lodgings might be had for the night. Lodgings, and food, and some warmth, Alistair reflects, as they negotiate their way across the fort and through the snow and into the warmth and damp smelliness and relative friendly atmosphere beyond the inn's heavy oak door.

_Who knew the Avarr had such things?_ He thinks and winks at his wife, the love of his life and final and only companion on his last journey—their last journey—as they stretch out their legs in front of the fire. _And rather passable ale, too… Maybe from living so close to dwarves…_

"Nah, this is better." She says, as if to answer his unspoken thoughts, and he narrows his eyes.

"Listen, I know there's this Warden thing going on between us, and we're married for almost thirty years now, but still… spooky, woman. How?"

"You're easy." She grins at him as she smoothes slowly drying red-grey tresses out of her face and straightens the sword belt strapped on her hip once again. "You had a sip of the ale, smacked your lips, so you liked it. The you glanced up, towards that group of Orzammar merchants there in the corner, and had a thoughtful expression on your face while lifting the tankard again, so you clearly were thinking about whether this was better or the one we had in Bhelen's palace all those years ago." She leans forward and pats his right leg, gently and carefully, just above where the old wound bothers him every time there's a northern wind. "Like I said: you're easy."

"But not cheap." Alistair grins, putting the now empty ale tankard on the table. "More of this, please." he says to the serving woman who arrives at their table with bowls of stew from the large pot over the roaring fire that takes up the middle of the wall. He winces as he shifts his weight on the bench and wishes that age wouldn't creep up on him with all those little aches and pains that seem to assault every joint and bone in his body. A tad of _ow_ here, a bit of _owie_ there, a slight touch of gout when it's turning cold or a bit of rheumatism when it's damp. Alistair watches his wife fuss with the clasp of her cloak as she spreads it on the bench next to her, her once graceful fingers now all cracked up and slightly gnarled from arthritic fever, the bane of soldiers, and thinks… _No, let it just be one searing, gloriously white-fire bonfire of pain blossoming and consuming one's entire being into nothingness. Let it all end at once, when we are still mostly limber and can lift the sword and dance the killing dance. Let us die as the warriors we were._

And they sit, and eat the stew, and sip on the ale, talking only in half-sentences like old, grizzled veterans of campaigns unnumbered, fought many years ago but still living in legend. They look at the others in the inn, locals and travelers alike, thrown together by the capricious weather, huddling as close to the fire and their stew bowls and ale tankards as possible, and wonder briefly about where do they go, and where did they come from, and where will they be when the two of them disappear down on the Deep Roads?

_Ferelden will be just fine_. The King leans back and empties the last tankard, feeling his Queen's fingers between his, reassuring. _Just fine._

From the thyme-scented depths of the kitchen two pairs of raptor-gold eyes watch them intently.


End file.
